


The World We Lost

by asylumsession



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Egypt pops up sometimes but mostly to move the plot forward, Eventual Romance, Lots of Time Jumping, M/M, Thoughts of Suicide, anyways it's a like five or six part mini fic now, honestly just angst, i needed his rationality, kinda wanna make it into a mini fic, so that's why it gets its own thing, sort of, turkey and greece won't do it themselves, we'll see where it goes, who needs proper timelines when you're immortal?, yeah so angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-02
Updated: 2017-11-03
Packaged: 2018-07-19 14:52:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 7,737
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7366024
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/asylumsession/pseuds/asylumsession
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the end, Sadik Adnan doesn't believe in happily ever afters.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Disease

**Author's Note:**

> Day six (number 1) of rare pair week – It’s History/AU Day. Obviously went with history. Normally, I’d jump at the chance to do an AU, but like, I saw TurGre wasn’t on the ban list and I couldn’t resist some Ottoman history. Basically just a trashy historical oneshot that’s probably terribly inaccurate (even though I spent most of the day researching oops). I apologize. Sick Man Of Europe; Sadik is forces to watch as everything he cares about is ripped straight from his hands. As usual, I had something or another on repeat; Scarborough Fair [Simon and Garfunkel], Implicit Demand For Proof [Twenty One Pilots], It Took Me By Surprise [Maria Mena] (this one definitely goes with this particular oneshot the most), I Come With Knives [IAMX], aaand Arms Of A Thief [Iron and Wine]. There may or may not be influences from some of said songs in this. XD Um… Human names mostly, but occasionally country names, and I mostly just focused on the countries that are in Hetalia whom were at one time or another part of the Ottoman Empire (Hungary, Romania, Greece, Egypt, Ukraine, Bulgaria, Moldova, etc). I wanted to write some angst so here we go. I was tempted to make this into like a mini fanfic so here we go, it might just become one depending on when I can be bothered with it. The title of this first chapter is a play on "Sick Man Of Europe."

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Sadik finally understands the meaning of agony.

For the first time in a long time, it is silent.

Sadik stands at the window; he keeps listening for something he knows he isn't going to hear. He keeps waiting to hear laughter or arguments or the soft sound of someone trying to sneak past his study and forgetting about the one floorboard that always creaks. It's directly in front of the door, he knows, and he's never bothered to fix it. He knows he won't hear it, but that doesn't stop a part of him from hoping.

It's funny, he thinks, feeling the tip of Mouth Athos press into the small of his back – Heracles is the only one who constantly avoided that board. Sadik is almost expecting it, so he doesn't really react when Heracles' cross presses into his back. He lifts his chin to watch the fading colors in the evening sky.

“Are you afraid to die?” Heracles asks, voice carefully flat.

Sadik knows Heracles is suppressing something. “I'm not,” he tells him shortly, holding himself as proudly as ever.

It isn't a lie; Sadik does not fear death. If he falls with the empire he has created, then that's simply how it is. They are not humans who come and go, but nations and empires that live knowing that one day, they will inevitably fall. He turns and Heracles backpedals a few steps, watching him through haunting emerald eyes. Sadik pretends not to notice how the Grecian's grip on Mouth Athos briefly clenches, but he sees the way Heracles holds the cross so tightly that his knuckles turn white. He watches the Grecian from behind his mask. The man is all tension, harsh eyes riddled with determination.

“Are you going to leave me, too?”

Heracles doesn't hesitate. “I am. Will you try to stop me?”

“I haven't decided yet.”

“I see,” says Heracles, lowering his cross.

His voice is quiet, a change from the howls of battle that Sadik is now accustomed to. Sadik watches Heracles wordlessly, simply observing as the Grecian moves around the study that none of them were ever allowed into. Sadik keeps his private things here, his favorite things, but this doesn't feel like any sort of invasion of privacy to him. Heracles isn't really looking; his eyes just sort of skim over everything.

Staring at the Grecian's back, Sadik wonders when Heracles became a man.

“Do you remember how happy we used to be?” Sadik dares to ask.

He's tired; Sadik is so, so tired. He leans heavily against the windowsill and his hand trembles slightly as he reaches up to remove his mask, setting it aside on the desk. He braces that hand against the wood surface and brings his other up to press his eyes. Everything aches; they've been playing this tentative game for a long time, faking their feelings, tip-toeing around each other and everyone else. Sadik has so many memories in this house. A part of him does not want to let go of that familiarity, but the other part of him knows he doesn't have the option anymore. He is losing.

“Yeah,” Heracles whispers, and just like that, they're playing again, “we were pretty stupid.”

Sadik hadn't known it couldn't go on forever – at least, he tells himself this. The man drags his hand down his face and watches as Heracles paces patiently back towards the center of the room across from Sadik. He swings Mount Athos up, bracing the cross against his shoulder. Sadik is suddenly very tired of this game.

“Everyone loves a good lie,” he breathes, and Heracles' gaze shifts to look over Sadik's head and out the window.

“Can you blame them?” Heracles sighs, “Perhaps it's better to create false memories than to face the reality of life – especially lives like ours. We live through painful events, one after another. Memories are dangerous things, Sadik. You turn them over and over until you know every nook and cranny, but _still_ , you'll always, _always_ find an edge that will cut you open.”

Sadik is all too aware of this.

“Then why-?”

Mount Athos clanks against the floor and Heracles drapes his arms over the arms of the cross. “I guess I just wanted to stop pretending.”

Sadik tips his head back. He supposes he should have expected this much, really. Heracles was always the one least inclined to play their little game, always the one to shatter their little façade when no one else dared to. Sadik had tried, he'd tried harder than he thought, but he realizes, quite abruptly, that Heracles will never be happy like this. As lazy as he is, the Grecian is a free spirit and Sadik can see it in the way the man – even when he was a child – looks longingly into the distance or buries himself among novels and dreams.

“I didn't realize...”

Sadik desperately wants to hold onto him, keep him here. He is selfish, he knows. The feeling is agonizing.

“The ignorant, Sadik,” Heracles murmurs, slowly, “never do.”

Sadik knows that. He knows that better than anyone. He isn't going to deny it, either. Heracles looks as though he wants to say more, but his words fail him as they so seldom do. Though perhaps not entirely conventional in terms of personality, Heracles is intelligent. He thinks too much, and such men always were and always will be dangerous.

“Tell me then, Heracles,” Sadik's gaze fixed on the Grecian, and Heracles does not dare look away, “which of them is aiding you? Britain, France, Russia?”

“All three,” Heracles informs him, and Sadik is the one to break the stare, “among others.”

“I see.”

Sadik slides his mask back on. Between the revolts and Greece's allies, he wonders if he has a chance to keep this man close. Perhaps, though, it was never an option to begin with. Ultimately, Heracles is not _his._ The Sick Man of Europe can do nothing but watch as everything he cares about is ripped from his fingers. He is defenseless, he knows; he can't deal with the Europeans from a position of equality anymore, much less superiority like he could all those years ago.

Perhaps it _is_ the end for him.

Heracles is watching him carefully and Sadik knows he must be cautious – nothing will escape this man's eye, even if he may act as though it does. He catches himself waiting again, trying desperately to listen for Elizabeta and Vladimir arguing while Gupta sits by and just watches them with an expression of vague amusement. But it is silent. Heracles turns away without so much as a goodbye.

Sadik supposes that Heracles has said _goodbye_ far too many times.

“Heracles,” he begins, as something that isn't quite an afterthought.

His fingertips curl around the edge of the desk beside him, if only to prevent him from reaching out towards Heracles. _Stop him,_ a part of him urges, but the other tells him to let Heracles go. Perhaps he's thinking of something along the lines of the childish saying, 'if you love something, let it go. If if comes back, it's yours. If it doesn't, it never was to begin with.'

But he knows Heracles will not come back.

The Grecian halts at the sound of his name, head inclined upwards slightly. His hands drop by his sides and his grip on his cross loosens a fraction. He's waiting; Sadik can't see his expression, but he can read it in the other man's slightly slouched posture and the way his head is angled, only barely, towards Sadik.

“I loved you,” Sadik utters, before he inwardly corrects himself; _love,_ “in my own selfish way.”

Heracles' laugh is laced with bitterness. “What a bad liar you are, Sadik Adnan.”

And all he can do is watch Heracles' back as the distance between them grows far, far too great. He watches without a single word as the Grecian steps carefully over that board and turns the corner, vanishing from Sadik's sight. A moment later, he hears the door shut and that's it. There is nothing left to say; Heracles Karpusi slips between his fingertips like sand. Something within him breaks - this, he supposes, is what agony feels like. A part of him wonders if Heracles feels it, too.

_The Ottoman Empire recognizes Greece's independence on May 7, 1832 by the signing of the Treaty of Constantinople._

_On November 1, 1922, the Ottoman Empire is officially dissolved._

In the end, Sadik Adnan doesn't believe in happily ever afters.


	2. The Devil Stole Our Days

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the world is not as black and white as they want to believe.

He thinks about her death a lot.  

Heracles can’t help it; he’s a pessimist, these days. He keeps thinking about his life in Constantinople, keeps wishing he could go back to a more carefree time, before he was bitter. Something's just  _ missing _ , and lately he’s beginning to notice it more and more. He isn’t sure what it is specifically, but there’s something about the colors around him - they’re starting to dull.

“No,” his mama says, and her voice echoes in a distant memory, “put your head down, baby. Keep your voice low; don’t speak.”

(Before, Heracles recalls vaguely, his mother is a strong woman. During this, he always pretends not to see the paranoia lurking behind her sharp eyes. There’s something like longing there, something he only spots when she’s fiddling with a failed wreath of leaves. He doesn’t understand it at the time, not entirely.)  

“Mama,” he whispers at night, pressed close to her chilled side,  _ she’s not warm anymore she hasn’t been warm for a long time, _ “why do we run? Why must blood still be shed?”

“Oh, my precious son,” she whispers, pressing her lips to his messy hair and swallowing down a little choke in her voice ( _ but he doesn’t miss it he doesn’t he hears the way it trembles and he hates it and it scares him), _ “I fear that one day you’ll understand. It’s a scary thing, the way the world can swallow you.”

(And later, when he’s older and she’s long gone and  _ oh _ , he understands, he tells Turkey, “She warned me, my mother. She told me about the way this world could swallow you. And God, she was right. It’s terrifying.” It’s another one of his darker moments, and Turkey just sort of frowns and turns away. Heracles likes to imagine that he sees a hint of melancholy thoughtfulness in the crease of the empire’s eyebrows.)

“Why is this our fate?”

To this day, he still asks _why._  

“Because we are ‘nations,’ we are doomed to this life. We repeat the same path,” she murmurs into his hair, “and together, we fall.” 

And oh, did she fall. Even in death, his mother’s presence hangs over him like the shadow of a noose, an invitation. (Sometimes he wants to take it, step up and let himself fall like she did. He can’t, he knows, but he thinks about it.) He knows she’s watching, arms wrapped over him like wings. She’s still glorious.

He is not.

“Remember, boy,” he recalls Sadik saying, when it’s the anniversary - he  _ hates _ that term, it doesn’t  _ fit _ \- of her death and Heracles is contemplating sinking into the sea like Atlantis, “history is written by the victors. It is all bias, attempts to justify the means to an end. Bloodshed was never anything to be proud of, and neither is death.”

(There’s something burning in his chest and he thinks it’s anger; anger that Sadik would brush away her death so easily, anger that he claims it’s nothing to be proud of but Heracles is  _ proud _ of her and her sacrifices.)

“But you don’t regret any of it,” ‘Greece’ - because that is him, as it has been since she ( _ no he won’t say fell she didn’t fall she was killed _ ) departed - more states than he asks.

The sea is angry like a poet’s soul and the howling wind are its forceful words. A part of Greece wants to scream back, but he cannot match the ocean’s force with his fading voice.

 “Sanity and empathy, Heracles,” Sadik tells him, “are always the first casualties of war. Things aren’t always black and white, boy.”

(The thought leaves a bitter taste in his mouth; he wonders if the saltwater will wash it out--)

“...You wish they were, though. Don’t you?”

( _His throat is raw with seawater and his lips still taste of salt.)_  

Sadik doesn’t answer.

Inevitably, as Greece would come to learn, though Turkey had won the battle, he would ultimately lose the war.

His mother had always been a strong woman; Greece had looked up to her, taken pride. And then suddenly she’d been ripped from his hands, leaving him reaching, begging for something he was never going to find. Heracles remembers sleeping on stone stairs as a child and listening to philosophers until she’d come and carry him back home. She’d always been warm; he can’t help but wonder why the ‘end’ made her so cold. He wonders often, on sleepless nights, if he is his mother’s legacy. Heracles, personally, does not think he is suited for the title.

He is not fit to be a nation, he knows. Their kind cannot be death-fearing. She did not fear death; she feared loss, feared losing her pride and herself, but she protected it - protected him - to the very end.

(“Are you afraid to die?” He dares to ask Sadik later, taking pleasure in the way Mount Athos is leveled perfectly between the man’s shoulders.

_ And he doesn’t want to be alone alone not being the point being-- _

He knows the answer before Sadik - _The Ottoman Empire_ \-  answers.  

“I’m not,” Turkey says, and Greece’s wisp of hope blows out like a candle.)

When he is a child, after his land - even to this day, it feels strange to call it that - is under Ottoman rule (and Heracles keeps having nightmares of the Janissaries, his people, dying) he spends his time at the window, staring blankly past the glass. He is a free soul, that child; a dreamer chained down by this immortal ( _not quite immortal)_ body, and something about this place allows this nagging darkness to seep into his bones.

That child dies with his mother.

He is replaced with a nihilistic man who no longer dreams.

(Thus marks the start of his constant napping; in the end, he realizes, he’s just searching for the hopes and dreams of that child again. He knows they’re gone. He knows that.  _ But it’s okay to pretend. _ )

There’s this game they play. Nobody is sure who instigated it, but everyone goes along with it, all the same. They play make believe, pretend they’re some sort of screwed up family ( _ but they’re not they’re not they’re not _ ), and Heracles is sick of it, he’s sick of playing, he doesn’t want to  _ play _ anymore.

He is sick of these games and the board in front of Sadik’s study that creaks when someone steps on it. He is sick of the portraits where he sees an unfamiliar, hollow face staring back with  _ his  _ hair and  _ his _ eyes and not smiling - he doesn’t  _ smile _ anymore. He is sick of being complacent as his people ( _ his people not Sadik’s they’re his _ ) die around him. Heracles is sick in general, sick of his surroundings and himself and the weight of Atlas’ world on his trembling shoulders. He misses his mother and the sun and the sea and ( _ he wants to drown he wants to beg Poseidon to take him back _ ) his happiness.

He’s got this little sway to his step when he thinks of Atlantis, thinks of the beautiful city of marble sinking down, down, down,  _ water closing over it, dragging _ \- and he misses the creaking board and he misses the late nights of musing on distant dreams and fantasies of freedoms with the others, when they’re not playing their little family. They’re just a bunch of tired kids who cling onto each other because they don’t have anything else left to hold onto.

 (And he misses playing the little family with its place of _belonging_ but he won’t admit that because he knows he never _belonged.)_

He misses trying to sneak into Sadik’s study and he misses waking Sadik up after a long day and he misses his mother and his  _ home _ and the raw need overwhelms any sort of naive hesitation the rest of him feels.

Heracles misses caring about Romania and Hungary and Bulgaria and Egypt and Sadik. But it’s too late to dwell on memories.

(“This is war,” he tells Turkey the day he leaves, and hopes the man doesn’t notice the way that his voice chokes  _ with smoke, he tells himself, “ _ I don’t know why you’re so surprised. Betrayal never comes from an enemy.”

“But you were never a  _ friend _ , were you,” Ottoman Turkey more states than asks.

He looks so tired.) 

“Remember how happy we used to be?” Turkey asks him.

Greece does. But he is not happy. Not anymore.

“Yeah,” he tells him, “we were pretty stupid.” 

He drowns the memories, bounds them to Atlantis and tosses them into the sea. His mother’s arms curl over him like ( _ a noose _ ) wings, and he sinks into it.

A part of him wonders if Sadik can see her, too.  

His people are fighting for their freedom now, and he must aid them. This is his duty - he is stepping into her shoes. Greece forces himself to lock away that heart, and watches the sea foam sweep away the key.  

(“I loved you,” Sadik tells him as he leaves, “in my own selfish way.”  

Heracles Karpusi - Greece - almost dares to believe him.) 

The stench of gunpowder is suffocating.


	3. Yesterdays

Heracles hears about the fall of the Ottoman Empire. 

Something in him mourns.

\--

He sees Sadik again at a world meeting. 

(Heracles has to pause to wonder if this is what it’s like to see a ghost; this is not the Sadik he remembers, proud and strong, with that ever present mask. This Sadik hangs low, shoulders curled forward as though Atlas has dropped the world on them. His eyes, a haunting green in the flickering lighting of the conference room, look sunken and dead.

This is not the Ottoman Empire that Heracles once knew.)

Sadik does not speak and Heracles does not say anything when they brush by each other in the corridor, but he lingers in the back of Heracles’ mind for the rest of the day. 

(He sees him again at the end of the day, when they’re all going their separate ways. 

“You’re alive,” he says, in passing, but does not dare look Sadik in the eye. 

The fallen empire’s laugh is laced with bitterness. “Not alive. Surviving. Merely existing.”)

\--

When Heracles arrives home, Egypt is in the kitchen, perched on the counter with some grapes in hand. He’s the only one Heracles really stayed close to after gaining independence - everyone else went their separate ways. Greece isn’t surprised to see him - he merely tips his head and dodges Gupta’s swinging feet to reach by and dig through the refrigerator for something to drink. 

“Was this your first time seeing him?” Egypt asks, golden eyes fixed on Heracles. 

He can feel the other nation’s gaze burning into his skull. “Yeah,” he says, but doesn’t look up, “it was.”

Egypt merely blinks slowly, tips his head, and pops another grape into his mouth.

“You should go see him.”

Heracles stops, halfway to the exit of the kitchen. “Yeah,” he sighs, softly, “maybe I should.”

But he and Egypt both know he won’t.

\--

Greece isn’t sure what possesses him to pass notes at the next meeting. Turkey is two seats down from him and he scribbles messily on a scrap of paper and slips it casually around the Italian brothers, who take no notice. On Sadik’s other side, Egypt doesn’t miss the slip of paper, locking eyes with Heracles, but only momentarily.

By then, Heracles has already completed his task and relaxes back in his seat again. He knows, instinctively, when Sadik reads it - the sound of it being opened is loud to him, even if nobody else pays it any attention.

Heracles doesn’t get a response.

(“You should just go visit him,” Japan tells him later, when Heracles falls into step with the Eastern nation.

Gupta is with Turkey, so his other friend had been out of the question.

“Maybe I should,” Greece says again, and he’s not sure if he means it or not anymore.)

\--

Heracles doesn’t bring up the subject again for a couple of years. They go by in a blink - a split second in which he questions his place in the grand scheme of things. There was a song, he recalls, that his mother used to sing, but Greece can’t remember the words anymore. His mind is too swamped with papers and money and problems upon problems. He just wants to sleep.

For the first time in a while, Heracles goes to church.

He’s done a lot of bad and can’t really think of the last time he repented for it. Most of the time, he questions just how religious he really is. His country is, sure, but Heracles can’t help but wonder about his own personal beliefs.

He doesn’t recognize any of the people inside. By now, he supposes, all of the old members have probably died. These are their children, or their children’s children, perhaps. Greece isn’t completely sure how much time has passed. In the end, he sits silently in the back and contemplates his life as he half listens to the sermon. 

The pastor approaches him later, when he’s standing still, watching the life move on around him.

“You’re new,” the man says, preparing to hand Heracles pamphlets. 

“No,” Greece replies, “I’ve been here for a long time.”

The next time, he makes a point of switching churches.

\--

At the next world meeting, Greece writes another note. He asks,  _ what’s death like? _

Turkey grabs him by the wrist after the meeting ends and looks him dead in the eye. “It’s pure nothingness. You’re nothing but a speck in this entire universe.”

Heracles turns the words over and over in his mind for a long time.

\--

“He talks about you, you know,” Egypt tells him, tucking up in the corner of the worn couch. 

Heracles is shuffling through his movies when the African country speaks, but he doesn’t pause or give any sign that he’s heard. Gupta knows he’s listening. Greece is just taking his time, gathering his thoughts. He’s seen every last one of these films at least twice - he’s bored of them now. He and Egypt both know that they’ll just end up scrolling aimlessly through the television before something is put on for the sake of background noise. 

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

Greece doesn’t immediately respond. He doesn’t need to; he’s frowning and he can feel Egypt’s gaze burning into his back again. Heracles can’t say he’s any different - he knows he talks about Turkey more than he should; thinks about him and their history more than he should. Heracles puts the movies away and picks up the remote, turning to the couch, but avoiding Gupta’s eyes. Egypt, just like that, sits up straight abruptly, abandoning his previously relaxed posture. Heracles is just trying to lock away the conclusion when Egypt voices it.

“Oh my god,” says Gupta, wide eyed, staring Heracles down, “you’re in love.”

\--

Greece isn’t sure how he finds himself at Turkey’s door. 

The house is the same as he remembers, but more foreboding. There are so many memories in this place, good and bad. There’s a sort of haze over them all. Heracles can’t ever forget them, but they’ve all amassed in a spot in his distant memory, never quite at the forefront until now. Now, they all push forward and he’s suddenly overwhelmed, considers turning back. But his fingers are already reaching above the door, where he knows Turkey still keeps his spare key, and unlocking the door.

Sadik will be expecting him, he knows. He probably knew the moment Heracles crossed into his borders. 

Memories flood Greece immediately. He hears laughing, sees faded shapes of young nations racing down the hall, down the long, endless corridor. He remembers all the games and the fights, remembers the few silent times in the dead of night, remembers the way he wandered these halls as a child, freshly woken from nightmares about his mother. He remembers the library in the dead of night, moonlight filtering through the curtains, providing just enough light for Greece to flip aimlessly through Turkey’s many books. Nowadays, he’s not sure if he ever actually read a single one.

Most vividly, he recalls the day he left, walking down this hall one final time. 

Heracles retraces his steps, silently, remembering himself from the days he wanted his freedom from this empire. He draws himself up straight, steps forward in the hall. He doesn’t have Mount Athos with him today, but he imagines the cross in his hand. He knows where Sadik will be. 

Heracles does not step on the board. 

Sadik is at his desk. He looks exhausted, shoulders weighed down and dark bags beneath his eyes. His mask is off for once, and his dull green eyes are brooding, fixed on some point in the distance, focused on something that Heracles can’t see. Turkey doesn’t move when Heracles steps in, but Greece knows the man is aware of his presence. He takes his time, tracing a nook in the floor that Mount Athos had left, recalling the last time they’d been in this room together. It always seems to begin and end here. 

“Sometimes, Sadik,” Greece whispers, and finally, Turkey’s eyes slowly slide to him, “memories are the worst form of torture.”

Sadik snorts, trying to draw himself up. He is still recovering; his country is strong, but he is not. Heracles knows he is thinking about the memories this house will eternally hold.

“Using my own words against me? Never thought I’d see the day.” 

Heracles is exhausted. They’ve been playing this game for too long. He sinks down, sits on the floor and leans against the wall, allowing his shoulders to drop. This isn’t the Ottoman Empire anymore. It’s just Turkey. It’s just  _ Sadik. _ Turkey hardly hesitates; he drags himself up out of his seat and crosses the room, sinking down beside Greece. Greece closes his eyes and drops his head against Turkey’s shoulder, feeling the weight of the other man’s head against his just a moment later. It’s been a long time, he thinks. Just in general; it’s been a long time. 

“I’m sorry,” Sadik sighs, softly, voice rough with exhaustion. 

“Me too,” says Heracles, reaching out to take Sadik’s hand.


	4. Nocturne

Sadik stops Heracles on his way out, grabs his wrist. Heracles halts immediately, turning, but making no move to pull away. Sadik searches the other man silently, but Heracles’ expression gives nothing away. He isn’t surprised; Heracles is always hard to read, something constantly lurking behind haunting green eyes. 

“What are we?” Turkey dares to ask. 

_ There. _ There’s that flicker again, something darting through piercing eyes. Greece turns his gaze away, slips his hand from Turkey’s grip. 

“I’ll see you later, Sadik,” he replies in that lilting voice of his.

The door clicks shut softly behind him, and Turkey’s words die in his throat.

\--

“Does it ever scare you?” Heracles asks suddenly, breaking the silence. 

It’s years later and he’s stretched over Sadik’s lap, eyes closed. Sadik’s back rests against the headboard of the large bed and he’s using Heracles as an armrest and reading a book Egypt had recently recommended. Turkey frowns at the vague words and turns his gaze to Heracles.

“What?”

He’s startled to see that Heracles’ eyes are open, but he’s staring blankly at the wall. He’s lost in his own head again; Sadik knows that look. Heracles is in a dark place, where nobody can reach him. 

“How damaged we are,” Heracles breathes.

Sadik sighs softly, absently traces the length of Heracles’ spine. 

“Yeah,” he says, “it does.”

\--

Sadik doesn’t like the autumn. The temperatures aren’t terrible, but when October approaches, so does the rain. It’s late October and it’s been raining all day. The days are shorter and Sadik gets restless when he’s cooped up in his house for so long. He won’t go out, though, not if he doesn’t have to. The rain leaves this deep ache in his very bones, weighs him down. 

He senses it when Heracles crosses into his country. 

Turkey is merely wandering, walking slowly through his halls when he feels it like a falter in his steps. And then he whirls, making his way quickly to the door. He knows Greece makes some questionable decisions, but this is ridiculous. Knowing the Grecian, he didn’t even bring an umbrella. 

Sadik opens the door just as Heracles, soaked to the bone, is raising his hand to knock. Greece looks startled, briefly, wide eyes blinking back at Sadik, who doesn’t even pause to question his purpose for being here before he’s towing the other man inside.

“You  _ idiot _ ,” Turkey hisses, pulling Greece down the hall - he’s  _ concerned _ , dammit, and he doesn’t like it, “why the  _ hell _ would you walk all this way without an umbrella? Or at least a  _ jacket? _ ”

Heracles’ skin is cold beneath Sadik’s fingers. He’s shivering now, clothing clinging to his form and hair stuck to his face. 

“It wasn’t raining back home,” Heracles tells him, as if that excuse cuts it.

Sadik knows that Heracles isn’t dumb by any means. He’s here for a reason - more than likely a completely last second reason, but a reason, nonetheless. Turkey opts to question it later, but for now, he locates some clothing that Heracles left the  _ last _ time he’d popped in - and stayed for longer than originally anticipated - and half shoves them into Greece’s arms with a towel.

“Go dry off and change. Geez, Heracles, I can’t baby you like this forever. You’ve gotta think about this stuff before you just  _ act. _ ”

It strikes Sadik that this is so ridiculously  _ domestic. _ It’s strange, though not necessarily terrible. 

Heracles’ gaze darts down; momentarily, he looks guilty, but the expression fades as quickly as it came. He ducks past Turkey, slinking off to go get changed. Sadik sighs, shaking his head and crossing the house to his kitchen to make coffee. Heracles hasn’t come yet, so he takes both cups to the living room. It’s modernized now; even he had to move on with times.

Unsurprisingly, Greece is draped over the couch, face down, one arm dangling off the side. His head turns when Sadik enters, and then he draws himself up when he sees the coffee, reaching out one hand for a cup before Turkey has even offered it.    


Sadik scowls and holds it out of his reach. “I’m not giving you  _ anything _ if you don’t ask for it politely.”

Heracles’ eyebrows pinch together and his lips tilt down, but he sighs. “Please?”

Turkey wordlessly passes him the cup and shoves Heracles’ legs off the couch so he can sit as well. They’re silent for a while, as they often are. Greece tucks his feet up and curls in, closing his eyes as he drinks. Sadik watches him silently over the edge of his own cup. 

“Heracles, don’t you have work to do?” Sadik finally speaks up. “Why are you here?”

“It’s because,” the Grecian trails, just momentarily, a sort of film covering his eyes, before he blinks and it’s gone, “I suddenly remembered today was your birthday.”

Turkey freezes.  _ Oh. _ Even he’d forgotten; he’d been so wrapped up in other things lately. Heracles is watching him now, green eyes flickering. 

“You forgot,” he states.

“I did.” Sadik breathes. “Is it already the twenty-ninth?”

Heracles shifts to set his already empty cup down and then rotates, draping himself across the couch again, and Turkey’s lap in the process. Sadik resigns himself to the fate of being used as a headrest. 

“It is.”

Turkey nods, slowly, purses his lips. He’s slipping up, lately. He doesn’t usually forget so easily. Heracles sits up, suddenly, reaching out to touch Turkey’s face. The touch almost immediately draws Sadik’s attention; Greece holds his gaze, steady, and slides his hand to rest at the back of Turkey’s neck. He leans forward to rest his forehead to Sadik’s.

“Happy birthday, Sadik.”

\--

Sadik seldom dwells over how different he and Heracles are. He stays in the  _ now _ , never quite daring to slip back into the past. Heracles is different, difficult to understand and never quite in the present. It’s always hard to figure out where Greece’s mind really is; Turkey is always wondering, but he never gets his answers. 

Beside him, Heracles is still. 

Time has passed, as it always does, in a blink. Turkey is still unsure as to the state of their relationship, but Heracles always dances around the subject when he tries to ask and Sadik doesn’t dare push it, for the fear of the other man completely shutting down. Greece is unpredictable, neither here nor there, and liable to close himself off at any given moment. 

He’s fragile, in a sense. 

They’re at Sadik’s home again, as they generally seem to be. He’s been to Heracles’ home; a little hole in the wall of an apartment flanked by a chronic smoker on one side and a neurotic couple on the other. Greece never seems to care, but by silent agreement, they seldom go there. Sadik is on his side, facing Greece, simply observing. Heracles’ face is relaxed, arms tucked up under his head. Turkey is tempted to reach out and trace the man’s face, run his fingers across his arms. Heracles opens his eyes, then.

“...What?” He whispers, voice low and rough from sleep. 

Sadik shakes his head. “Nothing,” he says, but when Heracles shifts, he reaches out to take his hand, dragging his thumb over the other’s knuckles.

Greece watches him with a strange look, but he doesn’t pull away. “If you say so,” he murmurs, closing his eyes once more.

“Hey,” Sadik says, suddenly.

Heracles doesn’t open his eyes, but Sadik knows he’s listening. He can’t stop the words now, one way or another.

“Promise you’ll be here tomorrow?”

Almost subtly, Heracles’ grip on Sadik’s hand seems to tighten. 

But perhaps it’s just the imagination.

“Promise,” Heracles whispers.

There was nothing left to say.


	5. The World We Lost

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah... Wow. This was only five parts, but I can't believe it's done. It's been a trip, guys. Enjoy this last part.

Greece is a man of secrets.

He is a mirror, glassy, reflecting back only what one desires to see. He is blank slate on which each person writes their desires on - never one who shows exactly what he thinks or says what he wants to say. 

There are times, in private, where he lowers his reflective surface. He allows himself to be weak and tired and overwhelmed by the turmoil of emotions that bubbles constantly just beneath his skin. He doesn’t dare to let anybody see this most private part of him, but sometimes, he allows little glimpses to slip through. Moments when he can’t struggle with the weight on his shoulders, when he needs rest, he seeks it. 

Sometimes, it’s Kiku. He can sit quietly with the serene man. Japan doesn’t question, he simply welcomes him in and makes tea, sits nearby and reads while Heracles rests. Sometimes Kiku is in a similar state, calm mask cracking, decaying at the edges, and they sit together in silence, mutual pillars of support - just two aching souls hurting together. 

Sometimes, it’s Gupta. Egypt often appears at Heracles’ door at the right times, as though he’s sensed it. He wouldn’t put it past the African country; Egypt is perceptive and has strong intuition - he  _ always _ follows his instincts, and it hasn’t ever seemed to lead him astray. So he visits, and sometimes Greece goes to him first. Gupta always plays music, lilting, light sounds with no words. Occasionally, he dances along, silent company and an active distraction. Occasionally, he merely perches nearby, hums to himself. Sometimes, he makes pottery, and the soft, steady hum eases Greece. 

Lately, it’s Sadik. He’s still awkward and unsure when Heracles shows up at his door, shows himself in, and curls up in the corner of the couch or coils himself next to Sadik when he’s sitting in his bed. He  _ reacts _ , all unsure hands and hesitant movements. Turkey acts as though he isn’t quite sure how to handle Greece anymore. Greece lets him figure things out, merely lingering around. 

Sadik finds a rhythm sooner rather than later. He finds that Heracles likes it when he runs his fingers through the Grecian’s hair. He finds that sometimes it’s best to leave it be, to let Greece merely be there and exist only in that moment. Sometimes he makes tea. Sometimes he, in turn, curls around Heracles and they lay in silence, touching but not quite touching and always failing to voice what they are and want to be.

Turkey doesn’t dare to ask. Greece doesn’t dare to answer.

\--

“Sometimes,” Heracles tells Sadik, turning his face up to the salty air, “I think about what it was like, before.”

They’re on one of Antalya’s beaches, tucked beneath a patch of shade. Sadik, it seems to Heracles, has taken a different approach today. He’s packed them up and headed to one of Heracles’ favorite places - the beach. His gaze has been tracing the scars on Sadik’s torso, faded from years, but still evident against tanned skin. As much as Greece hates to admit it, Turkey’s ploy  _ works. _ He feels a weight leave his shoulders once he’s in the sand, drags his feet through the grains and lets out a slow, steady breath. 

He feels calm. 

Turkey is standing, hands on his hips, but he looks down when Greece speaks. “About what?”

“My mother, mostly,” Heracles murmurs, watching with a sick sort of pleasure as Sadik cringes, “but about us, as well, and the other Ottomans. But mostly about you and I.”

Turkey hesitates, and lowers himself to sit beside Heracles. The mediterranean country is watching the sea, though, as it laps at his feet. There’s always that part of him that begs it to take him back, but that part isn’t so loud, right now. He feels warm, almost content. 

“What about us?” Turkey is asking, and Greece, in his half vulnerable state, really  _ pauses _ to think about it.

_ But you know exactly what you want to say, _ a nagging little voice tells him. 

He ignores it.

“We’ve changed.” 

Sadik hesitates, like he wants to say more. Heracles watches him steadily, dares him to, almost  _ hopes _ he does. 

But he doesn’t.

\--

“I’m sorry,” Turkey tells him, one day, when Heracles is tucked into the corner of the couch, half asleep.

“For what?” He asks, without opening his eyes.

Sadik sounds frustrated when he replies. “I don’t know. Nothing. Everything? I don’t…”

His words fade, and Heracles makes no effort to convince him to continue.

\--

“You know,” says Gupta, legs folded over his thighs instead of tucked under, “secrets can be unhealthy to keep.”

Heracles pauses, halfway through his movies. He doesn’t turn to face Gupta, but he can feel the other’s gaze burning into his back and inwardly curses his perceptiveness. He should have known better than to invite Egypt over, especially when his thoughts keep straying back to Sadik like this. 

Heracles isn’t oblivious. He  _ knows _ , of course. He just doesn’t want to admit it. He  _ can’t _ admit it. The moment he considers it, he feels his mother hanging over him, a soft reminder that her blood is on this man’s hands. 

“Greece,” he tries again, but when the Grecian doesn’t turn, he pushes once more, harder, “ _ Heracles. _ ”

Finally, Greece tears his gaze from the cover of some romantic comedy and turns it to Egypt. 

“ _ I know, _ Gupta. God, I  _ know. _ And it hurts me every second of every day; can’t you see that? But I- I can’t. My mother…”

“Our mothers do not dictate our choices, Heracles,” Gupta half snarls, usually soft voice sharp enough to make Heracles flinch - and then, just as suddenly, Egypt’s voice softens again as he continues, “Does being with him make you happy?”

Greece’s eyes are stinging, but tears do not come. They never come.  _ Our mothers do not dictate our actions. _ He looks at Egypt, sitting straight and strong and independent - his own person. He thinks of himself, curling in on his own body and tossing and turning at night over nightmares of memories he still clings onto. 

Greece turns away. “I stopped focusing on what made me happy a long time ago, Gupta. It makes life a lot easier.”

His friend unfolds his legs in one deft movement and slides off the couch, bare feet silent against the carpet as he crosses the space towards Heracles. Egypt crouches down and takes Heracles’ face into his hands, forcing the man to look back at him, and holds his gaze, golden eyes sharp and unwavering. 

“Heracles Karpusi,” Egypt tells him, quiet and calm, “you deserve all the happiness this world can afford you. Don’t forget that.”

\--

Somehow, Heracles realizes, it always circles back to this place.

Sadik’s study smells of pine and rain, a scent that makes Heracles want to sink down in a field of flowers and never leave. It’s a smell that makes him think of freedom, of adrenaline pumping through his veins as he runs away from everything - from his problems, from his feelings, from Sadik and Egypt and Japan and himself. 

But for once he does not feel his mother’s fingers on his shoulders, on the collar of his shirt,  _ dragging _ \- 

Now is not the time to run. 

Sadik, sure enough, is expecting him. He isn’t wearing his mask - lately, Heracles realizes, Sadik doesn’t wear it around him. He knows how that mask works. It’s Sadik’s walls, similar to Heracles’ own, but in a physical form. When he takes it off, he’s letting his defenses down - something that he does with very few others. Turkey trusts him - it’s Greece’s turn to put some faith in Turkey, too. 

“Greece,” he says, before Greece can get a single word out. “The other day. I’ve been meaning to talk to you about the other day.”

It takes a moment for Heracles to realize what he’s referring to.  _ I’m sorry _ , the words echo. Heracles had asked him, “For what?” and Sadik had never replied properly. Now, he looks almost as though it’s been eating him from within, expression twisted and shoulders hunched. He paces a moment, and Heracles doesn’t push him. He lets Sadik take his time figuring out his words, merely crossing the room and seating himself on the top of Turkey’s desk to watch and wait. 

Finally, Sadik stops, right on the nick in the floor that Mount Athens left. He stares at it, just for a moment, and Heracles can  _ see _ the memories and emotions race across his features. He can’t recall ever seeing Sadik so  _ open. _ Turkey takes a slow, steadying breath, and seems to ground himself, green eyes lifting to pierce through Heracles. 

“Greece,” he starts, and then, with a shake of his head, restarts, “ _ Heracles _ . I know words can’t ever make up what I did to you and… your mother. You were right - we’ve changed. I’ve changed, but only because of you. I know words will never be enough, I know that, rationally. But they’re a  _ start _ , and that’s where I want to be with you. The other day, I didn’t know what I was sorry for. I’ve done so much - I know you’ve suffered because of me.”

He takes a breath, more shaky. Greece’s eyes remain fixed on him, words lodged in his throat, back straight and breath hitched.  _ This _ is Sadik, he realizes. This vulnerable, pained, stubbornly prideful man.  _ This _ is who Sadik is. He doesn’t say anything; this isn’t the time. He holds his tongue and lets Turkey continue.

“So,” says Sadik, lifting his gaze and squaring his shoulders, “I apologize for everything I’ve done to make you suffer. I apologize for your mother’s death, and the janissaries, and every bad memory lurking behind these walls. God,” he says, and his voice cracks, shoulders dropping, “I’m so sorry, Heracles.”

Heracles waits, just for a moment. When he’s sure Sadik is finished, he reaches out a hand, and Sadik hesitates a moment, before moving forward to take it. Greece pulls him close, rests their foreheads together, and allows his fingers to linger over the back of Turkey’s neck. 

“It’s a start,” he agrees, softly. 

He doesn’t say what he came here to say, but this is a start.

\--

Life goes on around him. Somehow, it’s easier now. Heracles feels like he can breathe a little better. 

He’s stretched out across Sadik’s lap, watching the man’s expression change as he reads. He likes this, these quiet moments where he has no responsibilities, no expectations, and he can merely exist. It’s time, he knows. It’s time to speak up, but he wants just a moment longer like this. 

“What?” Sadik looks amused; there’s something soft about his expression and a little chuckle to his voice. “You’re staring again.”

Greece sighs softly and drags himself up to sit. Now he’s eye level with Turkey, who tips his head curiously. Sadik’s little smile fades a fraction at the sight of Heracles’ serious frown. 

“Can I tell you a secret, Sadik?” Heracles asks, reaching out to drag his fingers over the man’s jaw. 

Sadik goes still and quiet, leaning just a fraction into the touch. He doesn’t respond, but his gaze is trained on Greece, waiting. 

“I think,” Greece murmurs, and his hand stalls, tongue darting out to wet his lips, “I’m in love with you.”

Sadik speaks, voice rough and quiet, eyes wide. “Stop that,” he rasps.

Heracles’ gaze searches him. There is no disgust there, no fear; only something hesitant and unsure. 

He whispers, “Stop what?”

“ _ That _ ,” Sadik’s voice cracks in the middle of his half snarl, and he reaches out to drag his thumb over the skin beneath Heracles’ left eye, “saying thing that make me want to kiss you.”

Heracles swallows, gaze flickering to Sadik’s lips and then back to piercing green eyes. “Then kiss me,” he says.

“Problem is,” Turkey starts, holding Greece’s gaze, but slowly leaning forward, “if I kissed you now, I don’t think I’d be able to stop.”

“Then don’t,” Heracles breathes.

And he doesn’t.


End file.
